When people ask me how I’m doing, if I know them well, I answer, “Up and down, but much more up than down these days.” If I don’t have a close relationship with the questioner, I say “I’m doing great, love working part-time.” Both are essentially true. And yet last Friday, I wrapped a leather…
I have long had this image of Self-Loathing as either a dirty, shuffling wreck of a woman or someone very haughty with sharp fingernails and a sharper tongue. It turns out, however, that behind that disguise, SL may in fact be a little girl.
Over the course of six days, I go from doing extremely well to a sick, quivering mess. Now I have to crawl back, again.
I notice that there is a shockingly sexist strain in the way that Self-Loathing talks to me.
I have clear memories of abuse from my teen years. But sometimes I wonder I made up the earlier memories…
I’m asking myself: is this pile of medications and supplements helping me? Am I making too many changes? Should I keep doing this?
Lately, I don’t think very much about suicide. It’s not that I have been beating down suicidal impulses, but simply that when I’m doing better, I don’t think about dying. But then there was last night.